No one chooses to be born. Birth is something that happens to us. Something that is done to, and, in a sense, for us. Someone else moves us from one state of existence into a whole new and strange and shocking world.

The Christian idea of rebirth is much the same. Being born again as children of God is something that happens to us. Something that is done to and for us that we never could have done for ourselves. In fact, rebirth is often a surprise, often not something a person was even looking for. (This is certainly true of my own story.)

But rebirth also a bit different than birth.

The entire cosmos was created by and through Jesus. And yet Jesus was created within and through the cosmos. He birthed creation; creation in turn birthed him. The Creator set in motion a world with laws and properties and means of reproduction that set the stage for his own self to be born. The origin of all life allowed himself to be born like all living things are born. The Creator—in the mystery of all mysteries—somehow became created.

But even though the world was made through him, it didn’t recognize him. Not right away anyways. Some still haven’t recognized him.

Much of the time, if I’m honest, I don’t recognize him.

A witness is not a street-corner preacher shouting solutions to problems that passersby are not trying to solve.

A witness is not a salesperson trying to convince a customer to buy something they can’t really afford and don’t really need.

A witness is not a social media influencer leveraging a carefully curated image to promote an agenda.

A witness is not a parent telling children how to behave and what to believe just because he/she says so.

A witness is not a teacher trying to make things clear and understandable so that students can regurgitate the correct answers on a quiz.

Nothing can live long in the dark. On occasion, scientists discover some ghostly insect in a dark cave, or some pale fish in the depths of the ocean, but those are the exceptions. They have a certain claim to fame, but no other creature envies them.

No butterfly ever wishes it was a colorless, blind centipede. No dolphin ever wishes it was a translucent blob with pale zombie eyes.

“Hi! What’s your name?”

“Let’s go grab a coffee together some time.”

“Can we meet in my office?”

“Hey, come over here—I’d like you to meet someone.”

“Got plans Saturday night?”

“Sit down. I have some news.”

“Guess what I learned today!”

“Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“I love you.”

It’s not always obvious in the moment, but if you listen closely, if you catch it, you can hear whispers of what is to come. What is said in the beginning is the seed of the future. It sets the stage for everything else to come. Its sets things in motion. It is an indication that life is not going to be quite same from this point on, just because of what was spoken.

Within its own limitations. 

The bird is free to fly wherever it pleases. Only as fast and as its wings will carry it. Only as far as its endurance can sustain. Only as high as its lungs will allow. 

An ant can walk great distances carrying great weight. Only along an invisible trail marked out by others within its colony. Only carrying food that will be nourishing to the queen and her larvae.

Is necessary because life is complicated. Because people are complicated. Family systems are complicated. Cultures and societies are complicated. Circumstances are complicated. Our inner selves are complicated. The unexpected twists and turns of our individual stories getting tangled up in the twists and turns of a million other people’s stories is complicated.

Grace doesn’t try to untangle everything. Grace is not a scientific analysis of the chemical makeup of that explains why life has ended up the way that it has. Grace is not theological or metaphysical explanation that forcibly imbues meaning into every moment. Grace doesn’t lie to us by convincing us that everything bad is going to actually be good in the end.

I read recently that pain can only be described in metaphor. 

“A drum pounding in my head.”

“A needle is stabbing behind my eye.”

“There’s a brick in my stomach.” 

“My skin is on fire.”

Pain, it seems, can only feel like something else if we’re going to communicate any sense of it at all. 

Prayer, I think, works the same way. If we’re going to make any sense of it at all, it is only going to be in metaphor. Prayer is not a math problem or a geometry proof or a chemical formula or a secret code—up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, Aselect, start—and then you get 30 extra lives. 

No. Those are metaphors, but probably unhelpful ones. But maybe they’re helpful to someone else. To me, prayer is more mysterious than mathematics, or science, or coding. 

That I hold onto as if my life depends on it. Because it does. When I forget, when I get distracted, when I loosen my grip in whining and complaining, I lose my balance. I feel myself teeter off center. 

Then I remember, with a surge of fear, the rushing river beneath me that will sweep me away If I let go. The icy cold swirl of life, with all its cares and concerns, all it’s eddies and boulders. So I grip on tighter with a prayer of thankfulness. Even the smallest thing will do: the wind across the pond, the sigh of my dog, the stirring of my children in the dark morning, my wife’s gardens, burritos, a new song I’ve never heard before, an old song I’ve heard a thousand times, a good book, even a mediocre book. Any little thing will do, and a string of little things gives my fingers enough strength to hold on a little longer. 

Ought to be mandatory preventative maintenance. Expected. Somewhat regular. Guilt-free.

Like taking your car in for an oil change or a tire rotation. Like getting your yearly physical. Like regular date nights with your partner.

If you wait until a warning light is blinking red, you possibly waited too long. Now you’re in damage control mode. It’s better to rest before repairs are needed.